Buck quit coming home for supper, but I could hardly blame him. I couldn’t cook.
“Willa Mae,” I said. “Murphy told me you are the best cook in Hog Gap.”
“Murphy say dat?” she said.
“Yes’m,” I said.
“Guess dat’s be truth. Dat fine man don’t never lies.”
“Well, we got something in common,” I said. “I’m the best at being the worst.”
Willa Mae shook her head. “Murphy be da worst.”
“Buck won’t even come home to supper anymore. Says I’m trying to poison him.”
“Is you?” Willa Mae said and grinned. Her smile was still pretty, even though she had plenty spaces where her teeth once were.
“Lord knows I got reason to,” I said, shaking my head. “Think you could help me learn to cook so the food’s edible?”
“Land sakes, chile,” Willa Mae said, “A gal what learns herself to chicken farm kin do’s about whatever she puts her mind to do’s.”
“Maybe Buck will come home then,” I said.
“Least for supper,” Willa Mae said.
“My mama says one way to keep a man faithful is to keep his belly full.”
“Cooking be good,” Willa Mae said.
“What should we start with? I got some fixings for meatloaf and some ketchup,” I said.
“Meatloaf?” Willa Mae said. “How ’bout we start with one dem chickens?”
“Wouldn’t do to be eating up my livelihood,” I said.
“You gots plenty chickens. Good chicken farmer needs to know how to dress a chicken right. Dere’s tricks to gitting dem feathers off,” Willa Mae said. “We can scald pick ’em, dry pick ’em, or wax pluck ’em.”
“If it’s all that trouble,” I said, “how about we start with that meatloaf and ketchup—”
“We gwine start with one dem chickens. Den you decide how you want to pluck dat chicken.”
When Willa Mae strutted through the chicken range, the chickens seemed to know what was coming. They squawked and flapped and scattered in all directions. Even so, Willa Mae had herself a plump bird drawn up by the feet in no time. She brought him over to the porch and promptly wrung his neck. Then she stuck it and hung a weight on the lower part of the beak.
“Once it bleed out we kin scald pick it,” Willa Mae said. “Dry picking, dat’s too much work and has to be done right when it’s stuck or da feathers set and dey won’t loosen.” I swallowed hard.
“You okay, chile? You don’t looks good to me,” she said.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a chicken killed right before my eyes,” I said.
“Heavens ta’ glory!” Willa Mae said. “You be a chicken farmer now. You best git over it.”
“Oh, I will,” I said, then promptly dropped on the ground in a heap. When I came to I was laid out on the bed and that chicken was laid out on the counter fixing to lose its feathers. Willa Mae had a cold cloth to my head and was edged up on the bed next to me.
“Dere, chile. You be better now?”
“I think so,” I said. “What happened?”
“You got weak in da knees and soft in da heart when I bled dat chicken. ’Member dat?”
“Oh, Willa Mae,” I said. “I don’t think I’ll ever be up for doing that. Raising chickens is one thing. Killing them’s another.”
“Takes time,” Willa Mae said. “Jist like most things.”
The rest of the afternoon I took chicken cooking lessons; prepared a right nice dinner, too. Buck never made it home, so I made that same dinner the following night.
“I made you supper, Buck,” I said. “You coming in to eat?” He gave me a look like he’d been shot in the back. “It’s not like before,” I said. “I learned to cook yesterday.” Buck scratched his head.
“Yesterday?”
“Yup.”
“You darned near poisoned me last time I ate what you fixed,” he said.
“Well, now I learned how.”
“Ain’t nobody learns to cook in one day.”
“I did. Willa Mae says I’m a natural at putting ingredients together.” I popped open the oven door. A smell took hold of the room and wouldn’t let go.
“You should stay home and eat with me tonight,” I said. “You won’t be sorry.” Buck inched through the doorway and took a deep breath.
“I made us a chicken,” I said. “Wrung its neck, just for you.” I scrunched my lips together remembering that poor chicken’s terrified eyes. Good golly. What a woman will do for a man. I killed one of my own chickens. Twisted his neck like Willa Mae showed me. It wasn’t near as easy as she made it out to be, either. I jerked and twisted and screeched louder than that poor chicken, but I got the job done. The others flapped around the yard, squawking like they might be next.
“Buck, buck, buck,” they cackled.
“You got that right,” I said. “Buck, Buck, Buck. He’s the reason for all this.” I looked down at the chicken whose neck I’d stretched limp.
“Your pain’s over, little fella,” I said. “You just rest yourself now.” I took him over to the chopping block I fixed up in the shed, took his head off, and laid it to one side. I stuck him and bled him out, and then I plucked every feather he ever grew, patting him down as I went. Next, I cut off his feet, removed all the parts that weren’t edible, and took him back to the house to wash and stuff. I used an herb and breadcrumb mixture moistened with a fresh egg I got from the hen house, whipped it up with a bit of milk. I rubbed that plucked chicken’s nubby skin with butter paste mixed with sage and sprinkled him good with salt and pepper. As he baked he turned a golden brown. The juices sizzled and popped as they collected in the bottom of the roasting pan. Those drippings would make a fine gravy, and it was going to be an even finer meal. The proof was sitting in the kitchen chair. Buck inched himself closer to the table and picked up his fork as I heaped his plate full of chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, butter beans, coleslaw, and cornbread.
Imelda Jane may have a few things she figured Buck was in want of, but once he tasted my chicken, there was no telling what could happen to his heart. I’m sure many a good man has been turned around by a woman’s fine cooking.
“A man got more’n one kind a’ hunger in his belly,” Willa Mae said that afternoon before Buck got home.
“If that’s the case,” I told her, “I might as well start with the one keeps him alive and go from there.” Grace Annie smiled when I said it like she was listening and learning, already. And it looked to be working. Buck had cleaned his plate.
“Might try a bit more of that chicken, Adie,” he said. “Seeing as you went to all this trouble.” I served him up a second helping of everything. He ate every bite, and for once he even settled in for the night. Took off his boots and loosened his belt. And here I hadn’t even brought out the pie I’d made using a jar of Mama’s peach pie filling she’d brought me on her last visit.
Imelda Jane, you think you can steal my husband? You best think again! I’ll fight you with every chicken in my hen house. With those thoughts firmly in place, I cleared the dishes while Buck stretched out on the sofa and rested his dinner. My plan was working. The thing is, Imelda Jane was working on one of her own.